


You’re exactly the right kind of wrong (for me, for me)

by nohomies (kameo_chan)



Category: Fright Night (2011)
Genre: F/M, I am writing jailbait vampire!fic - what am I doing with my life?, I hate you vampire dad, I honestly don't even know, M/M, Underage Character(s), Vampires - doing physically impossible shit since 1874, the bad guys win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kameo_chan/pseuds/nohomies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ed’s got a mouth on him, and Jerry? Yeah, Jerry can admit he’s always liked the loud ones best. </p><p>Alternatively, the story of how Jerry wooed Ed into becoming his broody, unwilling and very much undead boyfriend. After everyone else got turned into vampires, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You’re exactly the right kind of wrong (for me, for me)

**Author's Note:**

> So my partner brought home the remake of Fright Night a couple of days ago, and after an initial period of disinterest, I finally decided to watch it. And all I have to say is that the only thing that beats out the homo-eroticism of that movie is David Tennant hamming it up like there’s no tomorrow. It’s really, really good, is basically what I’m saying. Also, I partly blame this on the Teen Wolf fandom, because that show has ruined me for life. Whenever I now see a tall, dark and handsome creature of the night and a sarcastic, nerdy teenager, I immediately have to ship them together lest my mind implode. 
> 
> Lastly, I love Christopher Minz-Plasse like burning and I loved him especially much in Fright Night. I feel like there’s this very real potential for his character, “Evil” Ed Lee, and Colin Farrell’s Jerry Dandridge to have had the snarkiest, most sexually-charged, awkward and tension-filled relationship in the entire movie. Also, they have a pool scene. Is this officially now a prerequisite for me liking supernatural slash pairings? I think so.

Ed is all delicious fear-stench and teenage hormones when Jerry corners him in the pool. It’s easy. It always is in the end, but Jerry likes how hard Ed tries to fight him, to fight his own baser instincts, nonetheless. He genuinely doesn’t want this – which, to be fair, few of his victims ever do. But with Ed it’s like a wall Jerry keeps running into – a flimsy piece of drywall, maybe, but some sort of wall still – and Jerry can’t help but relish the thought of turning him. 

Ed’s got a mouth on him; filthy and witty and so goddamn _smart_ it’s almost a shame to keep him a teenager forever, and Jerry? Yeah, Jerry can admit that he’s always liked the loud ones best. 

So he uses every manipulation trick the book, which isn’t really so much a book anymore as it is an arcane tome of knowledge on human vice and weakness. But whatever, right? He’s a four hundred-plus year old vampire; time marches on and he can totally get behind the one thousand and one handy uses of modern psychology if he wants to. And all it takes for Ed’s particular cookie to crumble is the mention of Charley Brewster. Charley who doesn’t want to be his friend anymore, Charley whose girlfriend Ed is secretly jealous of, Charley whose life is the sort of High School Musical kind of perfect Ed can’t even achieve in his wildest dreams. 

When Ed submits – and he does it so willingly, so quietly magnificent in his brokenness – Jerry almost, _almost_ feels sorry for him. 

But he’s too good to let go, and when Jerry sinks his fangs into the soft juncture between Ed’s shoulder and throat, it feels close to what Jerry’s always thought redemption might feel like. It feels fucking fantastic, is what he’s getting at. 

He bears them down into the water – and really, it’s all very symbolic and shit, considering Ed is kind of being reborn – and feeds until he’s almost bled Ed dry. His blood’s so fucking sweet, so saccharinely addictive that Jerry has to forcefully remind himself that he wants this one for his tribe. 

When he comes up with Ed’s pale, lifeless body in his arms, he feels power coursing through him like none of his other feedings have ever made him feel before. He’s fucking power-tripping on some serious teenage angst, and it is beautiful man, simply beautiful.

He’s halfway home when Ed blinks and slowly opens his eyes, sclera black and blown underneath the orange glare of sodium arc streetlights. 

“Hey guy. How do you feel?” Jerry asks, hefting Ed up, closer to his chest. 

“Like a fucking drained Capri Sun sachet. How do you expect me to feel, you fucking douche?”

Oh yeah. Jerry’s gonna enjoy this one for a very long time to come indeed. 

\--- 

The thing with Charley is that he’s predictable. That, and a terrible fucking liar and horrible little sneak too, but mostly it’s the predictably that trips him up. Oh, Jerry has fun with him. It’s nice to see the kid squirm whenever he’s around and play at being a monster hunter whenever Charley thinks he’s not; it’s cute that he thinks he’s the archetypical Van Helsing hero in some kind of Stoker-inspired fantasy world. But Jerry’s got him pinned with every move he makes and the beauty of it is that the kid doesn’t even realize it. 

“You’re seriously messed up,” Ed tells him on the third day after his ‘disappearance’. They’d watched his parents cry and give tearful statements to the police late in the afternoon of Charley’s visit like it was some kind of cheesy cable soap opera. “No, like you are fucked up, man. You’re like a cat toying with a mouse, except with way more creepy surveillance and stalking and shit.” 

“Aw, I love it when you flatter me Eddykins,” Jerry retorts, cracking open the tab of his beer with a claw. Ed fidgets next to him on the couch, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that had he still been a living, breathing human being, he’d probably have been red as beet. 

“Shut up asshole. It wasn’t a compliment,” Ed says, back up and immediately tense and God, but he’s so fucking adorable when he’s pretending to be affronted, Jerry could just eat him all over again. 

“It’s always a compliment when you’re the one saying it, Ed,” Jerry tells him. And even though Ed’s heart has stopped beating, his smell still changes. It’s sharp and kind of tangy, not quite the coppery bite of blood, but more the odd, pungent reek of hormones and arousal. Jerry smiles, letting all of his teeth show. 

“Whatever, douchebag,” Ed mumbles. “I’m gonna go feed. Feel free not to let me in on any of your creepy little mindfuck games anymore.” 

Ed’s halfway up the stairs when Jerry calls out after him. “But what if I want to let you in Ed? What if I want to share all of this, just with _you_?” He can’t help grinning when there’s the distinct sound of someone tripping over their own feet and a muffled curse from the top of the flight. 

\--- 

Jerry should’ve known that Jane Brewster would turn out to be a fucking A-grade bitch. What breaks his heart though is that she actually had the nerve to stake him. It hurts, it hurts like he’s about to go out of his fucking mind with pain and he’s not strong enough to tear the goddamn realtor’s sign out of his back himself.

So he summons the first of his children he can think of. He summons Ed; who stares down at him ten minutes later in fascinated horror, slowly circling him like a hyena.

“Holy fuck, Mrs Brewster sure did a number on you,” he says, whistling softly. Jerry’s managed to drag himself off the side of the road and behind a small ridge on the shoulder of the interstate. He’s weak and not healing properly thanks to the three foot piece of wood lodged in his torso, so he sue him if he isn’t exactly feeling up to scratch when he reaches out and hauls Ed close.

“I need you to pull it out,” he mutters around a bubble of bloody spit. 

Ed’s eyes go impossibly wide, sweeping up and down the makeshift stake and then back to Jerry. “You want me to pull a fucking piece of two by four out of your chest? Are you fucking insane, there’s no way I’m touching that!” 

“You’ll do it, or I’ll fucking kill you myself,” Jerry bites out. “And I really don’t want to do that Ed. You’re my favorite, see? Don’t make me rip your heart out Ed. You know I’ll do it if I have to.” 

Ed swallows thickly, clavicle bobbing and Jerry makes a low, hungry sound at the sight of it. “Jesus fine, okay. I – I’ll do it.” And then Ed is behind him, bracing a foot against his lower back and yanking hard. There’s a second where the wood catches on the bone of his thoracic cavity, and Jerry howls, because fucking cocksucking piece of shit, it fucking _hurts_ and the stake is almost scraping against his goddamn _heart_ , for the love of Christ. 

But then the next moment the stake comes sliding free and his organs are rearranging themselves into their proper places; the sweet thrill of bone and tissue knitting back together like a building crescendo in his veins. Jerry breathes deep, feels the delicious drag of air he doesn’t actually need fill his lungs, even as Ed tosses the stake as far away as he can manage, as though just handling it is going be enough to make him burst into flames. 

“Fucking shit,” Jerry hears him mutter. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jerry says once he’s able to get back on his feet again. He rolls his shoulders and works the crick out of his neck, and sighs when his back pops loudly. “I can’t believe she staked me. She always looked like one of those homey, caring soccer-mom types.” 

“You had it coming for fucking with her,” Ed says with a sharp grin. “Ain’t no one messes with Mrs B and gets away unscathed, man. Just ask Charley.” 

“Oh, I’m planning to,” Jerry croons. “But first…” 

Ed squawks loudly when Jerry hauls him close, and even turned, he’s still so ungainly, all awkward angles and hard lines. It’s really fucking cute, is what it is, him being all flustered and conflicted all the time. 

“Thanks for saving me,” Jerry purrs in his ear, letting his fangs graze the shell. Ed goes completely still, deer in the headlights, and Jerry can’t help grinning so hard it feels like he’s going to give himself lockjaw. “You’re definitely my favorite, buddy.” Ed convulses against him in a full-body shiver, muscles so tense he’s practically vibrating out of his own skin. 

And then he nips the lobe, hard enough to draw tiny pearls of blood and Ed makes a hushed, breathy sound at the back of his throat, like he’s trying to bite back a moan. And fuck it, but this kid will be the end of him yet, Jerry thinks, before Ed’s pushing at him to let go. 

“You’re such a fucking creep!” Ed yells, stomping off. 

They flag down a passing courier truck (“I think we’ve just found ourselves an invitation to Casa de Vincent, Ed,” Jerry tells him) and snack on the middle-aged delivery guy. Ed’s quiet all the way to Vegas, but Jerry doesn’t miss how those long, slim fingers of his keep reaching up to fondle the rim of his ear whenever he thinks Jerry’s not paying attention. 

\--- 

Peter Vincent grew up real well. A bit on the cowardly side, what with the screaming and the running into his fucking panic room like a classic B-movie slasher-flick heroine, but what are you gonna do when a vampire killed your parents when you were just a little kid? Still, Jerry wishes he’d at least have eased up on all the Gothic horror paraphernalia a bit. It’s depressing as shit and kind of kitsch.

He can feel Ed battling against Charley. He’s losing, slowly but steadily. The fact that half his right arm is missing just adds to the impediment and Jerry feels the first tendrils of worried annoyance rise up, before he gets a little distracted. 

Amy shoots at him with silver bullets – and Jerry has a moment to spare Peter a thought along the lines of, _Really? Fucking werewolves?_ – and when that doesn’t work she tries holy water. Only, it turns out that unless the vessel said holy water has been stored in for decades has been blessed as well, it kind of loses its touch. Regular water? Not so debilitating, it turns out. 

Turning Amy is good in the way that turning any young girl is. She’s ripe and tender and shapely in all the right places, and her pulse tattoos frantically when he sinks his fangs into her. But despite how good she feels, he can’t get rid of the dragging sense of unease Ed’s wounds leave him with. When Amy’s as good as gone, he sets her aside lovingly and brushes the hair from her face. 

She’ll be just great, he knows it. She’ll be his good girl, the one who’ll keep Charley in line for him, and once this is all over he’s going to have so much fun teaching her how to kill and feed. But for now, his mind’s still focused mostly on Ed and when Charley tries to stake him, Jerry feels a very real spike of terror and rage sweep him for the first time in centuries. 

He tosses Charley like a football, and he lands all the way on the other side of the display room with a muffled, crumpling thud. Jerry listens carefully for a second or so, but nope, Charley’s just about as fit as a fiddle and healthier than a horse and Jerry can still smell the blood pumping through his veins, working double time now to counterbalance the sudden rush of adrenaline and endorphins running rampant through his system.

When he turns back to check up on Ed, though, Jerry kinds of wants to go over there and finish the job. Ed’s neck is a mangled mess and his arm isn’t regenerating the way it should’ve by now and he’s very near his breaking point. He looks exhausted and drained, and Charley is in for it once he’s turned because this is fucking bullshit. 

So he reaches out and cups Ed’s chin; tilts it up and covers Ed’s mouth with his own, still bloody from feeding off Amy. And Ed – bless his cold unbeating heart, the little shit – keens into his mouth and bites down on his tongue; slakes his thirst while Jerry kisses him hard and fast and desperate.

When Ed finally draws back, wiping the back of his hand against his chin, he’s as good as new again. 

“Thanks for saving me, I guess” Ed mumbles, tongue dragging against the rill of excess blood still dripping from his chin. “Looks like you’re not as much of a dick as I thought you were.” His eyes are dark and half-lidded, fixed on Jerry and his mouth is bright red and wet and pliant. Jerry can’t help but stare at him and Christ but it’s been so long since he’s wanted to fuck a boy as badly as he wants to fuck Ed right here in the middle of Peter Vincent’s penthouse suite. 

What he says instead is, “I told you, guy. You’re my favorite.” Then he taps Ed on the chin and ruffles his hair and heads on over to pay the Brewster a little visit.

\--- 

Jerry takes back everything he ever said about Peter being a coward, because Peter’s here, at his house and in his basement, armed to the teeth with blessed artefacts and holy relics and playing at being a fucking one man vampire extermination squad. He’s like a lily-white, British Blade, only much less coordinated and not a vampire half-breed.

And while Peter may have his father’s piss-poor aim, he’s also got his mother’s eyes and a good portion of her balls too, and he handles a stake gun like it’s nobody’s business. Well, until it jams that is. And then he gets swarmed, but he’s proven himself both deadly and capable, and that makes Jerry want to give him a second chance at life. Or unlife, as the case may be. 

“You can’t beat me, Peter,” Jerry taunts, watching Peter dredge up the last bits of willpower to reach for his shotgun and blow out the basement rafters to let thin, steaming tendrils of sunlight filter through. “And honestly, you don’t want to. Think about it.” 

“I already have,” Peter says with a hard grin and then the crazy fuck’s lighting himself on _fire_ and lunging at Jerry. 

His children whoop and scream, skittering around the shadows and weaving past bright beams of light like agitated wolves and Jesus fuck, he’s on fire and it _burns_ and he’s roasting alive. His mind’s a mess of rage and hatred and he can’t think straight, can’t think past the agony of his flesh searing and peeling off; the way his marrow melts and boils in his bones. 

He’s lucky enough to bat the stake blessed by St. Michael out of Peter’s hands, but the fire’s driving him mad, and he stumbles in and out of the sunlight only to roar hatefully whenever it makes contact with his already blackened, charring body. 

He doesn’t know what’s up and what’s down or how long he burns – like hellfire, it consumes everything he is; unmakes him – but suddenly, he’s in the shadows and the scorching sensation’s finally abating. He’s still blind and vulnerable, sockets bloody and weeping puss from where his eyes had burst open like rotten grapes, when he hears the ( _Ed; it’s Ed’s_ ) voice. 

“Christ, shit shit shit! C’mon you crazy motherfucker, don’t you fucking dare die on me today. I swear I’ll kick your blood-sucking ass so hard you won’t know what the fuck hit you! Come on!” 

Then there’s blood in his mouth and it tastes like salvation, better than the finest wine or the richest honey. He feeds like he’s possessed (he is, he is) and doesn’t stop until his body begins to piece itself back together: painful and slow, but healing nonetheless. 

When he’s enough of himself again (and his eyes have regenerated; boy was _that_ a fucking trip), the furnace fire of the desert sun has already begun to set and Jerry turns his head slowly to look up. Ed’s face is pinched and drawn but strangely determined, and he’s got Peter’s bloody, mangled wrist clutched in his hands like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. 

“Aw, I knew you cared, Ed,” he manages to croak out around roughened vocal cords, and Ed gives him a jittery, disbelieving smile. 

“I do, I do and I hate you so fucking much for it, you asshole,” says Ed then, laughing and tossing Peter’s wrist (and incidentally, Peter himself) off to one side – out of the way of the last dregs of fading sunlight, Jerry notes with a hint of satisfaction. And then Ed’s leaning down and kissing him, hard and furious and a little clumsy, like he’s still not really sure whether he’s allowed to do it or not.

Whatever, Jerry thinks. They’ve got all the time in the world to work on their relationship issues – and probably Ed’s technique, as well – now that they’ve got a dream home in a nice town and their little brood’s all settled in. Ed is going to be the best brood-mother ever.

All in all, it’s a pretty fucking perfect ending to a really fucked up night.

**Author's Note:**

> There will probably be a porny continuation of this sometime in the future, creatively titled: Welcome to Fright Night, For Kids. Yes, it will also probably be a family!fic. I am the actual worst person I know. You’re welcome.


End file.
